


Sign of the Times

by IreneADonovan



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Disabled Character, Charles in a Wheelchair, Erik Logic Is The Best Logic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not A Fix-It, Post-Beach AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2018-10-29 12:33:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10854096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IreneADonovan/pseuds/IreneADonovan
Summary: After Erik and company teleport away from the beach, he sends Azazel back for Charles...EASTER EGG HUNT!: Three more fics, 1000 word minimum. Details in the notes. NEW CLUES ADDED 5/9!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lazorjam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazorjam/gifts).



> This is for lazorjam, who won one of my last Easter eggs. She asked for post-FC Cherik, whatever the Harry Styles song 'Sign of the Times" brought to mind. This is what came. Hope you like it. Thinking it'll run 3-4 chapters...
> 
> THREE NEW EASTER EGGS:
> 
> The first two have to do with the police officers names. They were characters on an old tv cop show, though they never appeared together. They were each, at different times, partnered with a much more famous tv cop. I'm looking for that cop's name and his tag line, one winner for the name, one for the tag line
> 
> We have our first winner. Fullmetalcarer identified Sgt. Joe Friday of Dragnet and one of the tag lines I was looking for: "Only the names have been changed to protect the innocent." But I"ll still give a fic to the first person to give me the other tag line.
> 
> The other Easter egg is a paraphrase of a Robin Williams line. I'm looking for the movie it's from. MAJOR HINT: He won an Academy Award for this role. BONUS EGG: Identify the line I paraphrased.

They vanished in a swirl of sulfurous smoke. Erik's head swam, then his stomach, and there was a wrenching sense of dissolution followed by an abrupt sensation of renewed solidity as they appeared in a sumptuous entry hall.

Erik turned to Azazel. “Go get Charles and bring him here.” 

Azazel glared at him. “I not fucking taxi.”

“Сейчас!” Erik barked.

Azazel looked surprised that Erik knew Russian, even a word as simple as “now,” but he finally gave a curt nod and vanished. He reappeared moments later with one scarlet hand wrapped around Charles' wrist. He dumped Charles on the marble tile and glowered at Erik.

Charles stared up at Erik, his blue eyes hazed with pain and hurt and anger. “What the hell do you think you're doing, Erik? You just kidnapped me.”

“I couldn't leave you behind.”

Charles started to push himself up on one elbow, but he fell back with a sharp cry of pain. Raven rushed forward and dropped to her knees beside him. “He needs a doctor,” she said.

Charles latched onto her hands, tight enough to make her wince. His eyes had gone wide, sudden fear driving off the pain and anger. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing emerged but an incoherent stammering.

Icy fear pooled in Erik's gut. Words never deserted Charles, not even in the bedroom.

Charles tried again. “I can't, I can't--”

Erik dropped to his knees opposite Raven, laid a reassuring hand on Charles' chest.

Charles wrapped a hand around Erik's wrist. “I-I-I can't feel my legs.”

The quiet sentence sliced through Erik like the sharpest of daggers.

Raven gasped. “What? Charles?”

“I can't feel my legs.” Now that he'd given voice to the words, Charles couldn't seem to stop, repeating them over and over.

Erik's head snapped upward, his gaze landing on Azazel. “Get us to the nearest fucking hospital.”

Azazel rolled his eyes.

In an eyeblink, Erik had the teleporter's sword wrapped around his throat, tight enough to cut off his air but not tight enough to cut off his head. “Больница. Сейчас,” Erik growled.

Azazel's shoulders slumped in reluctant submission. Erik loosed him and extended a hand.

The other man took his hand, and Erik again felt the unsettling dissolution-reformation, and he found himself, Raven, and Charles on the asphalt outside an emergency room. “Where are we?” he asked Azazel.

“Los Angeles. Cedars-Sinai. Shaw has house in fucking Beverly Hills.”

“Come back for us.”

Azazel nodded. Erik doubted he actually would. The man had no loyalty to him.

Erik scooped Charles up and carried him inside.

**~xXx~**

Eight hours later, Erik was pacing in the surgical waiting room. Charles had to survive this. He just had to. Erik needed him in ways he couldn't begin to define.

Charles was the sole bright spot in his dark world. He'd made Erik dream of a life after he killed Shaw, a life where he was something more than a weapon. A dream that was now crushed to ash, bitter on his tongue, destroyed by the casual cruelty of a deflected bullet.

Charles would surely hate him now. Charles might be an incurable optimist, but he was no saint. Not even he would readily forgive the man who'd shot him in the back, abandoned him on the beach, maybe crippled him for life.

That Charles couldn't feel his legs frightened him in a way he'd thought lost to him, a way he hadn't felt since the day Shaw had killed his mother. Since that day he hadn't allowed himself to care for anyone enough to feel this kind of fear. Not until Charles had barreled his way into his life, his heart, his soul.

Raven was in her own private purgatory, huddled on a couch, arms around her knees, tears streaming down her face. Erik supposed he should comfort her, but he was no good at that.

A man in surgical scrubs entered the waiting room, glanced about, focused on Erik. “Are you Mr. Xavier's family?”

“I'm a friend,” Erik said. A word that didn't begin to express the depth or the breadth of his feelings for Charles. He pointed at Raven. “That's his sister.”

The surgeon stepped over to Raven, spoke to her in hushed tones. Erik strained to listen in but couldn't hear anything but Raven's intensified sobs.

The surgeon stepped away, and Erik moved toward her. “What did he say?” he asked.

Raven shook her head, crying still harder.

“Is he still alive?” He dropped onto the sofa beside her. “Tell me, damn it.”

She snuffled behind her hands then slowly nodded.

Erik patted her back awkwardly, and she collapsed against him. His arm circled her shoulders, and he held her until she'd cried herself out. This was one time brute force wasn't going to work; he'd have to wait, which he did grudgingly.

When Raven's sobs had reduced to an exhausted sniffling, she finally spoke. “He's alive, mostly out of danger, but--” Her voice broke, and it was an endless minute before she could continue. “But the bullet shattered his spine. He's never going to walk again.”

Her words, though not unexpected, were nonetheless a punch to Erik's gut. “I did this to him. He'll hate me,” he whispered.

“Charles would never hate you. He lo--” She broke off before she could say the forbidden words.

“No one loves me. I'm Frankenstein's monster.”

**~xXx~**

By unspoken agreement, Erik and Raven never left Charles alone. One or both of them was always at his side, even sleeping on the empty second bed when exhaustion demanded it. The nurses had taken one look at them and seen in their eyes that the term “visiting hours” simply didn't apply.

Azazel, surprisingly, had returned after a day, bearing fresh clothes for the both of them. He eyed Erik with sullen respect, said he'd check in daily with more clothes, had given Erik the phone numbers for Shaw's estate, then vanished in a puff of smoke.

The clothing fit tolerably well, the dress shirt a touch tight through the shoulders, the pants a little short. Erik suspected they were Shaw's. Raven's dress was unquestionably Emma's, white and strapless, with a full skirt.

Erik tossed his blue-and-yellow flight suit in the trash. The only item he removed from a pocket was the bullet, still stained with Charles blood

Charles drifted in semi-consciousness for days, lucid only for moments at a time, and even then only enough so to recognize Erik and Raven and smile softly

The police came one afternoon when Erik was out of the room, making a cafeteria run for some decent coffee and food other than stale pastries.

Raven filled him in upon his return. “They're investigating Charles' shooting. I told them I didn't see anything.” She demonstrated her best “innocent little girl” look. “But they still want you to call them.” She handed him two plain white business cards with LAPD shields printed on them.

Erik took them, studied them silently. Officer Frank Smith. Officer Bill Gannon. “I'll think about it,” he said. Like hell he would.

Raven gave him a knowing look as she claimed her cup of coffee. “This is what they looked like, so you can avoid them.” She morphed first into a tall man with dark hair, then into a slighter man with thinning grey hair.

Charles did finally awake one morning, a little before noon. Raven was asleep, her face peaceful as it never was in waking. Erik had finished reading the newspaper and was working the crossword.

Charles moaned softly, and Erik glanced up from the paper.

Those cerulean eyes fluttered open, hazy and unfocused, as they had been every time before.

But this time he blinked a few times and his eyes came into focus, awake but confused. “Erik,” he whispered, his voice rusty from disuse. “What happened?”

“What do you remember?” A question Erik didn't want the answer to.

Charles' brow knit. “Boarding the plane. Flying toward Cuba.” He frowned, shook his head. “That's all.” His eyes were wide and agitated. “Why don't I remember? And why does my back hurt so much?”

“You were shot while we were in Cuba. Shaw's dead, but I was able to persuade his teleporter to take you to a hospital.”

Charles' eyes closed again. “Thank you, my friend.”

Erik reached for Charles' hand, enfolded it in both of his. “Rest,” he said. “We'll talk more later.”

Charles nodded wearily and drifted away again.

Erik sat there, holding Charles' hand, his mind spinning a thousand miles an hour. Would Charles remember what had happened? And if he didn't, what would Erik tell him? 

**~xXx~**

“Are you crazy?” Raven demanded.

“He doesn't remember anything about Cuba. The doctor said he may never remember. Traumatic amnesia, he called it.”

“So you want to feed him a version of events that doesn't involve you shooting him.”

“Or either of us leaving him behind on that beach.”

He had her then. He knew it. “Fine,” she snapped.

They discussed the story they'd tell, kept it as simple as they could, altering only the end. Moira's CIA associates had arrived after Erik had diverted the missiles, and they had attempted to take everyone into custody. They'd fought back, and Charles had been wounded. Azazel had gotten them out, but had been unable to get to Sean, Alex, or Moira. Not the best story, but it would have do. As long as Charles kept his promise to stay out of their minds.

They were so deep in their hushed discussion they didn't notice Charles had opened his eyes until he spoke. “I thought I was supposed to be the one arguing with Erik,” he teased feebly.

“Charles!” Raven rushed to him, took his hand. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I've been shot.” Charles managed a weak smile. “At least I'm told that's what happened.”

Raven nodded, kissed his hand, tears welling in her eyes as she took a seat on the edge of the bed.

An odd frown settled on Charles' weary features as he stared at Raven's hip pressing against his thigh. “I can't feel that,” he said softly. His free hand swept across his belly, over his hip, down his thigh. “I can't feel any of it.” His eyes were wild and fearful as his fingers dug into his quad. “I can't feel my legs.” His voice shook. “Why can't I feel my legs?”

Raven opened her mouth but couldn't find her voice. She glanced helplessly at Erik.

Erik stepped forward, perched carefully on the other side of the bed, untwined Charles' fingers from around his thigh. He lifted Charles' hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to the knuckles before beginning to speak. “The bullet shattered your spine,” he said quietly. “Your spinal cord was severed. There was nothing the doctors could do.”

Tears filled Charles' blue eyes, spilled silently down his cheeks as he shook his head in shocked denial.


	2. Chapter 2

This had to be a dream. A nightmare. But no matter how many times he pinched himself (above the waist), he wouldn't wake up. His lower body remained inert, insensate.

He had to be dreaming. The alternative was the true nightmare.

Erik and Raven told him he'd been shot. They told him -- something. He sensed they were leaving things out, but he wasn't sure he wanted to know. Wasn't sure he cared.

He didn't remember anything that had happened that day in Cuba, knew only what he was told, that the CIA had turned on them, including Moira, that Moira had promised to get Hank and Alex and Sean to safety, while Erik had bribed Shaw's teleporter (with the promise of a case of Charles' favorite scotch) to take Charles to a hospital.

And that was how they'd wound up in Los Angeles. Why the teleporter had chosen LA, Charles had no idea. The sunny skies outside his window just felt wrong when the calendar was turning to November. He wanted rain, he wanted snow, he wanted dark skies to match his mood, not endless bloody sunshine.

But no one had asked him what he wanted, had they. He wanted to go back to Oxford, walk through an English rain, flirt with a few coeds, pretend he'd never heard of the CIA or Sebastian Shaw, forget he'd tried to save the world. He wanted out of this hospital, out of this bed. He wanted his fucking legs back.

A tide of fury rose within him, and he balled his hands into fists, slammed them down on his unfeeling thighs. Did it again. And again. And again.

“Charles?” Erik stood in the doorway, coffee cup halfway to his lips.

“They won't work,” Charles said, continuing to pound at his legs. “They won't fucking work.”

Erik put his cup down, perched on the edge of the bed, caught Charles' wrists gently but firmly. “I know.”

“They won't work,” Charles repeated a final time, his voice little more than a bleak whisper. 

“I know.” Erik pressed his lips to Charles' hand. “I know.”

Then the tears came, a flood, a torrent. Erik folded him into his embrace, ever mindful of his surgically-repaired back. He held him silently, rubbing gentle circles between his shoulder blades. Let him shake, let him sob, let him rage.

Erik held him while the storm blew itself out, until Charles was crying quietly in his arms. He never spoke, just cradled Charles against his chest, rocked him gently, offering strength and support.

“I don't think I can do this,” Charles said.

Erik stroked his hair. “You can.”

“I'm not as strong as you think.”

“You're stronger,” Erik insisted. “Stronger than you give yourself credit for.”

Charles shook his head. “It's too much. One moment, and my world is changed forever.”

“Isn't this what evolution's all about -- adaptation and survival?”

“I can't adapt to this, Erik. And it's not fair to ask you to stick around.”

“What?” Erik's voice was soft, his tone stunned.

“I'm not the man I was when I met you.”

“Nor am I. I was nothing but an executioner, driven by revenge. You made me want more.”

“So that makes you more than you were. I'm not. I'm barely half of who I was.”

Erik cupped Charles' face in his hands. “You really think I should leave you, just because you're paralyzed?”

“I wouldn't blame you.”

“I'd blame me.” Erik's lips covered his in a fierce kiss.

Charles surrendered himself to it. Erik really was a fantastic kisser.

When they finally came up for air, Erik said, “I'm not going anywhere. Get used to it.”

**~xXx~**

_Two weeks later..._

This was one time Charles intended to take shameless advantage of being absurdly wealthy.

He was finally being released from the hospital, finally going to escape the pain and sickness and death that wreaked holy havoc with his telepathy. The plan was supposed to have been for him to go to some sort of rehabilitation facility, but Charles had balked. He needed to be somewhere where he could be alone in his head for a while.

Enter the estate formerly owned by Sebastian Shaw. Charles' plan was to hire whatever therapists and nurses he needed, pay for whatever equipment and renovations that were required, and have relative peace while he recuperated.

As much as was possible, anyway. Whatever it took, he would be self-sufficient again. He wouldn't depend on others for his every need. He just wouldn't.

Raven and Erik arrived just after the nurse had brought him a sheaf of release papers. Minutes later, Erik wheeled him outside. He was free. He sucked in a big lungful of air, coughed, then took a more careful breath. Damned smog.

But the smog couldn't put much of a dent in his mood, nor could the noontime traffic. Or even his first glimpse of Shaw's estate.

The place was hideous. Ostentatious and overdone. Just the sort of place that would appeal to a Hugh-Hefner-wannabe like Shaw. Ah, well, hopefully they'd only be here a few months.

Erik lifted him from the front seat, settled him in the wheelchair, then reached for the chair handles. Charles waved him away. “I may as well start learning to do this now.”

He was a little slow, a little clumsy, but he made it inside with only a scrape on his knuckles from misjudging the turn through the door.

He had to start somewhere.

**Author's Note:**

> The Russian --
> 
> Сейчас -- now
> 
> Больница -- hospital


End file.
